


Second Kisses And Beyond

by DinosaurTheology



Category: Superstore (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Domestic Fluff, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Food, Kissing, Romance, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: Amy and Jonah shared their first kiss under stressful circumstances. What could lead to a second kiss or more?





	Second Kisses And Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write a little something sweet after fighting a five hour house fire the other night. Hope everyone enjoys.

Amy is not the world's greatest cook. She can handle herself decently with a pan of enchiladas (especially if Hamburger Helper is in some way involved) and not many people can grill a hot dog to a more radiant state of totally even perfection but as far as anything more complicated is concerned? She is not precisely going to be featured in the Michelin Guide any time soon. That has never been a problem before—Adam's taste always ran to dry Corn Pops for breakfast and ground beef stir fried with Ramen noodles for supper—but now that Emma's in high school taking a Spanish class and that class is having it's first cultural food day? Shit's just got real.

“Moom,” she said, “c'mon... we are literally Spanish. We're what the class is about. Why can't we cook something cool?”

“First of all,” Amy had replied, “we're not Spanish. We're Latina—Honduran, if we're getting really technical—and secondly... I can't cook. Not really.”

“Yes you can,” she said. “You make those really good enchiladas and the burrito thingies.”

“Mija,” she said, “the enchiladas are Hamburger Helper and the burrito thingies come frozen in a bag and I freakin' pour Hormel chili over them. I'm not exactly gonna get named Iron Chef up in here.”

“But.. but...” She pouted the pout of a child whose hero had fallen off the pedestal and landed squarely on her ass. “Mom... I promised them paella.”

Amy grimaces and ruffles daughter's hair. “Oh, baby... I don't even know what paella is.”

Jonah does, though. Bless his pretentious little foodie heart he does. He even shows up at her door with a special little cast iron pan for cooking the protein in. “Helps retain heat better,” he says, “and lets things get in there and hang out and really develop a beautiful depth of flavor.”

She laughs and tugs him across the doorway by his collar. “Thanks so much for this. Now get in there and get to work, Rachael Ray.”

“Rachael Ray? Really?” His brow furrows. “Cause she's cool and all but I always felt a little more Anthony Bourdain, maybe?”

“No,” she says. “No. God no. You've been given Rachael Ray, for once, instead of Rachel Maddow. Take it with good grace.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. All right. I guess. But I really feel like I try to tell more of an ethnographic story with my food--”

“C'mon, dude,” she says. “Just... no. I mean, I made Garret stop playing 'Jonah hipster bingo.' Don't make me regret it, okay?”

“All right,” he says. “But you're gonna be the one missing out if I don't brilliantly narrate the history of paella while I make this for you guys.”

“We'll survive, kay?”

Emma chooses now to find her voice. “Er, actually, Mom... it might be kinda good if he does tell us the story. For my class.”

Amy sighs. The flesh of her flesh and a traitor all the way to the bone. “All right,” she says. “If that's how you wanna play it. I guess we're gonna hear the story of paella, huh?”

He brightens enough to actually hurt her eyes... or she may just be squinting in annoyance. “That you are indeed! So pull up a chair, ladies, and let me take you to Spain in the early seventeenth century...”

Amy lets her head droop on the table. “How did I know exactly where this was going to go? The freaking Middle Ages.”

“Renaissance,” he says, “or, more accurately, the early modern area. In fair Valencia is where we'll set our scene...”

He tells the story while he chops onions, sautes them with garlic, tomatoes and green peppers. He elaborates while tossing the shrimp in a hot, sizzling chili oil—a fiery element of Moorish cooking found in this dish, he mentions as an aside that Emma gobbles furiously and scribbles in her notebook... perfect for a class presentation!--and then slowly, almost sensually, stirs the rice while waiting for the paella to thicken in the heavy cast iron caldera that Amy inherited from her great-grandmother on the Sosa side but has not yet found time to use for anything more inspiring than the occasional pot of spaghetti sauce.

Sensually? SENSUALLY? Whoa, okay, Amy, she tells herself... I know you and Adam have been separated for a little while now and there weren't a lot of super-heated moments between you for a minute (okay, maybe more like an hour except for some seriously frenzied “I'm glad you're not dead” sex after the tornado) but... sensually? Stirring? That's some shit straight out of a romance novel and you need a date with the massaging shower head tonight, girl.

She finds she can't help it, though. So he's stirring the pot like a smooth little fucker and she just can't help imagining how those long, artist's fingers would feel working their deliberate strokes down her belly or across the stretch marks on her hips and thighs. 

The paella turns out to be really good. Like, restaurant quality. She's not super surprised. Jonah is good at a lot of things, which is why she maybe feels the need to tease him so much, cut him down a little. It feels a little bitchy sometimes but... it's all in good fun, isn't it?

So, yeah. His paella is the bomb. The reminds her of a really goofy poem she read somewhere that began, “I ate your baklava, today, it was in the freezer, a frozen hope,” but yeah. It had tasted really, really good. That might be what happened. Or it might have been the way Emma looked at him, eyes bright and glad to have someone help with her homework. Or, truth be told, it might have been that he hadn't cooked the red wine sauce in the rice long enough to burn off all the alcohol. That might have been the best answer... blame it on the drunkies.

Either way, it happened on her front steps, a second kiss, kiss number two. She grabbed his shirt and hauled him to her, mashed their lips together and let a little pent up angst and fury and just oh-my-god-fuck-me rush together on the taste of sofrito. His fingers found her hair, tangled there. Hers hooked into his belt loops. There was very possibly, though she wouldn't have admitted it under oath, a tad of over the shirt action by both parties.

She pulls back panting, eyes dark and huge. “So, uh... that was smooth. I hope to Emma Jesus didn't see, er, I mean, I hope to Jesus Emma didn't see--”

He takes a third kiss right there and it melts into a fourth, fifth, sixth. Things might have progressed had her phone not beeped. She turned from him and whipped it out of her pocket at the kind of switchblade speed that would have made any cholita swell with pride. Her daughter's face flashed on the screen. It read:

Mom,

Finish up whatever old people stuff you and Jonah are talking about and come inside.

Luv you,  
E.

She smiles. “So, uh... duty beckons.”

“Yeah. I'm glad you liked the paella.”

She nods. “Totally. It was great. Really great. So... tomorrow? See you? At work?”

“I'll see you at work tomorrow.”

“That's it!”

He nods and she can see the goofy grin spreading on his face, hopes hers isn't as obvious. She knows it is, though. She watches him walk away and knows it is.


End file.
